Yep, I totally stink at balancing work, home and blog!! My world is just starting to get some rhythm back to it, so I hope to do a better job of posting here. Three posts a week is my new goal. Let's see who can keep me honest (thanks to Bookgirl whose friendly "where the heck are you?" message prompted this entry). But I have to warn you...baseball playoffs are only a week away, and they do take up a lot of my free time in the evening (my Yanks need me, you know). Plus, hello, new TV shows! I've got sitcom romances to catch up on. It is difficult to keep track of all my imaginary flat screen friends on How I Met Your Mother, The Office, Scrubs, 30 Rock, etc. But I promise to try to give equal attention to my real flat screen blog friends!!
Speaking of favorite TV shows, do you know they are turning Sex and the City into a movie? Now, of course, I kept up with all the talks preceding the start of filming - Sarah Jessica was in and then holding out, Kim Cattrell wanted this sex scene and not that, Kristen Davis just wanted to have a job doing something else besides bad Loreal commercials - you get the picture. The thought of a continum to the finale (which I still have saved on my Tivo, almost 3 years later!) made my heart twitter. The possibility of catching up with the girls at the coffee shop practically brought tears to my eyes.
And now they are actually filming it in NYC. Go to Bookgirl's blog for visual proof (they are shooting scenes in her building!!).
And now, I don't know. I am having second thoughts. Shouldn't a TV show end on the TV screen?
I fear they are going to screw it up. I worry they are going to twist the plot too much. Do I want to peak into the "married with children" lives of Miranda and Charlotte? Not really...I live that each day. Do I want to watch Carrie marry Mr. Big? Absolutely not (and if they do I promise there will be an entire entry devoted as to why this is a terrible choice). They picked the right ending the first time. Great books leave you wondering...great tv shows should too.
So don't kill the magic, Darren Star! If it turns out the last season was all Carrie's dream or the characters go to jail for their questionable morals, I promise you will hear from me. Please don't ruin my imaginary flat screen TV friends lives by stretching their little worlds onto a huge movie screen. Bottom line - don't f*ck it up.
Yet, if Ross and Rachel should happen to make a cameo at the coffee shop (they must have moved uptown by now), at least then I'd know how they are doing too.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Itchy, Itchy
Recently I have been involved in several conversations about relationships - what makes them work, what causes them to go wrong, etc. Most of my friends fall into two categories - single yet desiring marriage and married but wistfully recalling singledom. Most in the married category have been betrothed for 6 or more years. They have started to glance back into their early twenties, wondering what could have been if they have turned a different corner. What if they had moved to California instead of stayed in New York? What if they had gone to College A instead of College B? Yesterday one of my closest friends eloquently speculated, "What if I hadn't been such an insecure prick who felt the need to have a girlfriend since I was 13?" What if?
These questions can make your head spin, and I know my friends in the single category wrestle with them as well. However, when you are one half of a married couple these inquiries are taboo, as if by asking them you are proclaiming the imminent downfall of your marriage. Not true (well about half the time it's not true since our divorce rate is over 50%). Instead, I believe it is a very natural rhythm for a relationship; some have even called it a seven year itch. Around the six or seven year mark in a relationship you start to really realize (maybe even accept) that what drives you crazy about your spouse is just not going to change. You understand that despite the hours and hours of conversations (some heated) the person to whom you have given your life is going to possess this negative trait - forever.
For example, I am an anxious person. I try to manage it, suppress it, and contain it. Yet there are times when I just cannot do so. Before we travel, for example, I slowly unravel my cool exterior to reveal my twitching self who must pack every blanket, medicine, and tidbit for Princess or else I am uneasy. During these times I have been unreasonable, moody and unapproachable. My husband and I have had endless talks about my anxiety. He, Mr. Laid Back, hates when I am so tense. Sometimes, he finds these harried episodes of mine funny, which just ticks me off even more. So now as we move into our seventh year of marriage he confronts the very real possibility that yes, this is who I am. This anxious, control freak person is the one he said "I do" to, and now he needs to know if he can really live with it. Perhaps he peers backwards into a time in his life when he could just be carefree, when no one lingered over him asking if he packed the baby's monitor or "if we should bring the nasal aspirator?" What if he had pursued his original dream of being a personal trainer? What if he had moved with his parents to Florida? What if he had never taken that catering job and worked with me? What if?
Over the past summer I have struggled to truly accept something about my husband. He is a workaholic. He claims he isn't, that it is just the nature of his business. And it is, but it is a business in which he chose to make his livelihood, thus feeding this addiction. Our conversations about his job are like the movie Groundhog Day. The same discussion recurs over and over: I say, "You work too much." He says, "It will get better soon." I say, "You said that last year and now you are working more." He says, "You knew this when you married me." I say, "You said you were going to find a new job." He says, "Well, I didn't. I love what I do. Why can't you support me?" And then the "talk" usually comes off the hinges and moves into the unpleasant, unfamiliar realm of a "fight."
After the wistfulness of college days and innumerable options fade away, we, the itchy married ones, realize that turning different corners would have only lead to different problems. Instead, we must begin to face new "What if" questions, ones that focus on the future rather than our pasts. What if I just accept this about my husband? What if we don't eat dinner together most nights like I want us to? What if I just accept this about my wife? What if she loses it every time she forgets to pack extra diapers? What if?
I guess we just don't know. Can a anxiety ridden woman and a workaholic man have a happy, fruitful marriage? And who wants to deal with it if the answer is no? Ugh...not me. That would be too painful to face. But what if?
So Mr. Laid Back, can you hand me that back scratcher over there? I think we've got an itch.
These questions can make your head spin, and I know my friends in the single category wrestle with them as well. However, when you are one half of a married couple these inquiries are taboo, as if by asking them you are proclaiming the imminent downfall of your marriage. Not true (well about half the time it's not true since our divorce rate is over 50%). Instead, I believe it is a very natural rhythm for a relationship; some have even called it a seven year itch. Around the six or seven year mark in a relationship you start to really realize (maybe even accept) that what drives you crazy about your spouse is just not going to change. You understand that despite the hours and hours of conversations (some heated) the person to whom you have given your life is going to possess this negative trait - forever.
For example, I am an anxious person. I try to manage it, suppress it, and contain it. Yet there are times when I just cannot do so. Before we travel, for example, I slowly unravel my cool exterior to reveal my twitching self who must pack every blanket, medicine, and tidbit for Princess or else I am uneasy. During these times I have been unreasonable, moody and unapproachable. My husband and I have had endless talks about my anxiety. He, Mr. Laid Back, hates when I am so tense. Sometimes, he finds these harried episodes of mine funny, which just ticks me off even more. So now as we move into our seventh year of marriage he confronts the very real possibility that yes, this is who I am. This anxious, control freak person is the one he said "I do" to, and now he needs to know if he can really live with it. Perhaps he peers backwards into a time in his life when he could just be carefree, when no one lingered over him asking if he packed the baby's monitor or "if we should bring the nasal aspirator?" What if he had pursued his original dream of being a personal trainer? What if he had moved with his parents to Florida? What if he had never taken that catering job and worked with me? What if?
Over the past summer I have struggled to truly accept something about my husband. He is a workaholic. He claims he isn't, that it is just the nature of his business. And it is, but it is a business in which he chose to make his livelihood, thus feeding this addiction. Our conversations about his job are like the movie Groundhog Day. The same discussion recurs over and over: I say, "You work too much." He says, "It will get better soon." I say, "You said that last year and now you are working more." He says, "You knew this when you married me." I say, "You said you were going to find a new job." He says, "Well, I didn't. I love what I do. Why can't you support me?" And then the "talk" usually comes off the hinges and moves into the unpleasant, unfamiliar realm of a "fight."
After the wistfulness of college days and innumerable options fade away, we, the itchy married ones, realize that turning different corners would have only lead to different problems. Instead, we must begin to face new "What if" questions, ones that focus on the future rather than our pasts. What if I just accept this about my husband? What if we don't eat dinner together most nights like I want us to? What if I just accept this about my wife? What if she loses it every time she forgets to pack extra diapers? What if?
I guess we just don't know. Can a anxiety ridden woman and a workaholic man have a happy, fruitful marriage? And who wants to deal with it if the answer is no? Ugh...not me. That would be too painful to face. But what if?
So Mr. Laid Back, can you hand me that back scratcher over there? I think we've got an itch.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Can Someone Hand Me a Towel?
If you didn't read my previous post, this one won't make sense until you do. I'll give you a minute....
Whew. It was a long one, but as you can probably tell I was having a bad week. I did turn down the new job. Surprisingly, they came back with a counteroffer, a guarantee in writing, and a few other tidbits. While it was not the total package I desired, it was a strong gesture of good faith. So I'll do the job for a year, and then I can decide if I want to continue in that position or return to my old one.
So, someone hand me towel. The Big Boss wants me to wash the egg off my face.
Whew. It was a long one, but as you can probably tell I was having a bad week. I did turn down the new job. Surprisingly, they came back with a counteroffer, a guarantee in writing, and a few other tidbits. While it was not the total package I desired, it was a strong gesture of good faith. So I'll do the job for a year, and then I can decide if I want to continue in that position or return to my old one.
So, someone hand me towel. The Big Boss wants me to wash the egg off my face.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
One Chicken, Two Chickens...
I am a bit beside myself this evening (a tremendous understatement). In July, I wrote a post about my "secret" promotion, which now is far, far from secret. At my school district's administration meeting yesterday, my colleagues were openly congratulating me. One person even gave me a hug. What these people did not know was I had just left a meeting where I learned that what I thought my salary was going to be is no where near what I was going to be offered. Yet during a preliminary meeting in July, I presented what I wanted as a salary, and no one made any indication that I was not even close.
Since yesterday I have consulted a lawyer and had a second negiotiation meeting, all to no avail. Th big bosses want me to take this newly created job (absorbing the full responsibilities of someone's previous job while also fulfilling my current responsibilites) when my take home pay increase will equal less than what I spent on first car, a 1986 Dodge Daytona (w/ t-tops of course). It is a huge job. It is a shitty offer. I have 24 hours to make a decision. But I will give you a preview of how the phone conversation will go...
"Hi Very Friendly Admin Assistant...is Big Boss available?"
"Sure, Working Mom. I'll put you through. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your new job! I think that's wonderful."
"Ummm...Thanks Very Friendly Admin Assistant."
"Working Mom? It's Big Boss. How are you today?"
"Good, good. Listen, I know you are busy so let me cut to the chase."
"OK, great."
"You have offered me what basically constitutes my dream job, one that will challenge me and thrill me, a job that I will somehow work even harder than I already do to make sure I am successful, therefore making our school district successful. During all of our discussions you have given me some truly fantastic compliments and assured me that I am the person you want to do this job. At each meeting, you stated that you are fully confident that I am the individual who can make this supervisory model work. It has all been so kind of you to share that with me."
"Well, Working Mom, all the school administrators feel that way. We know you are the person for this job."
"Again, Big Boss, thanks. But you see, Big Boss, I drive a Ford now, and I really have no need for a 1986 Dodge Daytona. Nor do I need a new Pottery Barn throw rug (the big one). And I certainly don't need those extra funds to splurge on a Prada bag (not retail price, of course but we all know I love Ebay). It just doesn't seem fair to my colleagues for me to accept this district position, which oversees the curriculum development and implementation for over 7,000 students, professonial development training for approximately 200 teachers, direct supervision of over 35 department members, and then flaunt the fact that I was able to use my raise to buy a pair of used skis for Princess."
"I see."
"So I am going to have to say no to my dream job. I'm sure you understand."
Okay. It probably will go more along these lines....
"I have carefully considered your offer, taking numerous factors into account while doing so. Since it is a job I want to do and one I know I would love, you can imagine how difficult it is to me to say no. I can't do it. My bottom number is still thousands away from your best offer. The position is worth more than that. I am worth more than that. And the additional time I will spend away from Princess is worth more than that. I also know that while you have promised me you will not dissolve my current position, by turning this job down I am destroying any additional possibilities for career advancement here, at a school I really love. But I stand by what I said yesterday; the salary offer is unfair and unreasonable. And as hard as I have tried to do so, I cannot justify accepting it, knowing how much it will cost me and my family."
And then I will hang up the phone and cry. Or I might wait until I get into my car (that is where I have been doing much of my sobbing these last two days). I don't know. I'll be on pins and needles waiting to see how long I can control the lump in my throat.
So a lesson, my friends. When you count your chickens, make sure everyone involved in this exercise is counting eggs in the same coop, or you might end up like me...with slimy yolk all over your face.
Since yesterday I have consulted a lawyer and had a second negiotiation meeting, all to no avail. Th big bosses want me to take this newly created job (absorbing the full responsibilities of someone's previous job while also fulfilling my current responsibilites) when my take home pay increase will equal less than what I spent on first car, a 1986 Dodge Daytona (w/ t-tops of course). It is a huge job. It is a shitty offer. I have 24 hours to make a decision. But I will give you a preview of how the phone conversation will go...
"Hi Very Friendly Admin Assistant...is Big Boss available?"
"Sure, Working Mom. I'll put you through. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your new job! I think that's wonderful."
"Ummm...Thanks Very Friendly Admin Assistant."
"Working Mom? It's Big Boss. How are you today?"
"Good, good. Listen, I know you are busy so let me cut to the chase."
"OK, great."
"You have offered me what basically constitutes my dream job, one that will challenge me and thrill me, a job that I will somehow work even harder than I already do to make sure I am successful, therefore making our school district successful. During all of our discussions you have given me some truly fantastic compliments and assured me that I am the person you want to do this job. At each meeting, you stated that you are fully confident that I am the individual who can make this supervisory model work. It has all been so kind of you to share that with me."
"Well, Working Mom, all the school administrators feel that way. We know you are the person for this job."
"Again, Big Boss, thanks. But you see, Big Boss, I drive a Ford now, and I really have no need for a 1986 Dodge Daytona. Nor do I need a new Pottery Barn throw rug (the big one). And I certainly don't need those extra funds to splurge on a Prada bag (not retail price, of course but we all know I love Ebay). It just doesn't seem fair to my colleagues for me to accept this district position, which oversees the curriculum development and implementation for over 7,000 students, professonial development training for approximately 200 teachers, direct supervision of over 35 department members, and then flaunt the fact that I was able to use my raise to buy a pair of used skis for Princess."
"I see."
"So I am going to have to say no to my dream job. I'm sure you understand."
Okay. It probably will go more along these lines....
"I have carefully considered your offer, taking numerous factors into account while doing so. Since it is a job I want to do and one I know I would love, you can imagine how difficult it is to me to say no. I can't do it. My bottom number is still thousands away from your best offer. The position is worth more than that. I am worth more than that. And the additional time I will spend away from Princess is worth more than that. I also know that while you have promised me you will not dissolve my current position, by turning this job down I am destroying any additional possibilities for career advancement here, at a school I really love. But I stand by what I said yesterday; the salary offer is unfair and unreasonable. And as hard as I have tried to do so, I cannot justify accepting it, knowing how much it will cost me and my family."
And then I will hang up the phone and cry. Or I might wait until I get into my car (that is where I have been doing much of my sobbing these last two days). I don't know. I'll be on pins and needles waiting to see how long I can control the lump in my throat.
So a lesson, my friends. When you count your chickens, make sure everyone involved in this exercise is counting eggs in the same coop, or you might end up like me...with slimy yolk all over your face.
Monday, August 27, 2007
For Adults Only
Okay...before you get too excited, it's not a racy post. Instead, I need to vent about where I believe it is appropriate to take kids, especially those 10 and under. As you all know, I am a parent of a 2 year old who is just as sweet as sugar, but there are places I do not take her because it is not fair for other patrons to suffer through a whiny tantrum or a "I'm so sleepy" crying episode. I made her (well there were 2 of us present during her creation), so it is my job to deal with those fun moments. Yet, those people out to enjoy a nice dinner at a good restaurant, or I don't know, let's say women set to enjoy a quiet pedicure on a Sunday morning, should not be subjected to a screaming child. And yet, during my ONE hour of alone time on Sunday, that is exactly what happened.
As many of you already know, my husband works like a maniac, especially during the summer months. From May through September, I am basically on my own. So those few times when I get to go somewhere, anywhere without toting extra diapers, a sippy cup, wipes, Abby Caddabby, matchbox cars and crayons, well those are rare. special moments for me. This Sunday, though, my husband was home for a total of 24 hours, and he said I should go out and treat myself to some alone time. Before he completed the sentence, I sprinted to my car with just my debit card, iPod and book in hand. Off I drove to Jane's Nails, the only local salon open on Sundays.
It all started off very well. I walked in, and they immediately fulfill my "mani-pedi" request. Fantastic. Approximately five minutes into my manicure, a mom walks in with her 5 year old daughter to get a pedicure. At first, this sight does not trouble me at all. I understand a mother's need to get out of the house. I understand her desire to treat herself to a foot soak. I understand her want of red polish on her toes. I've been alone with a toddler for the last 3 days; I get it. But, then she says she wants her daughter to get a pedicure too, and I think "This is going to be trouble."
Now, ladies (no offense to my dear male friends who read this blog as well - please don't feel excluded), you know damn well that occasionally you'll get pinched or the water will be a little too hot or the file will burn just a bit. And you are not a five year old girl with tickly feet who squirms and wiggles because, you know, you're 5! You're a grown up who can sit still for 30 - 45 minutes, longer if someone is rubbing your feet! But a kind (perhaps naive) technician invites this sweet little girl to climb into a massage chair to give her a pedicure.
At first, it's okay. Yes, she's a chatty five year old and I would prefer a little more serenity (as I just left my chatty 2 year old), but it's manageable. The little girl is good for the first 10 - 15 minutes and I think, "I misjudged; shame on me. A preschooler can get a pedicure." However, before the daydreams of kindergarten Princess and I getting pedis begin, a scream catapaults from this girl's mouth out into the salon. This little girl's yelp reverberates off the salon's coral walls, circles each patron's head, and sends familiar maternal quesiness into my belly. Then, the tears pour from this little girl's face and true hysterics set in. Her mother frantically interrogates the girl and the tech, "What happened? What hurts?" But no one speaks, or if they do, I can't hear it over the child's gut-wrenching, "my foot has been cut off" cries.
Just the relaxing Sunday morning I was looking for.
So it turns out, as the tech clipped the little girl's big toe nail, the girl flinched, and the tech caught a tiny piece of skin. Yep, that hurts. I don't blame the child for screaming. She's five... I blame the mom for getting her a pedicure because, you know, she's five...
After several minutes of consoling her, wrapping her toe in mountains of gauze and assuring her it would be fine, the mother finally decides to remove her daughter from the salon. But as she leaves, she doesn't apologize or state (with contrition) "This probably wasn't a good idea." No, instead she makes a ridiculous proclamation: "Don't worry, baby. We will NEVER come back to this TERRIBLE place again! They OBVIOUSLY don't know how to take care of their CUSTOMERS properly."
Lady...she's five, and you got her a pedicure. And your daughter's screaming ruined 20 minutes of my 60 allotted minutes to be without my own screaming child. Let's not pass blame on the salon here.
So, call me crazy, unreasonable or plain mean. But there are some places that really are for adults only. If men can have an entire section of a non-franchised video store (b/c we all know women order their porn online), then I think ladies should be allowed to have nail salons.
There are just some places that should be for Adults Only.
As many of you already know, my husband works like a maniac, especially during the summer months. From May through September, I am basically on my own. So those few times when I get to go somewhere, anywhere without toting extra diapers, a sippy cup, wipes, Abby Caddabby, matchbox cars and crayons, well those are rare. special moments for me. This Sunday, though, my husband was home for a total of 24 hours, and he said I should go out and treat myself to some alone time. Before he completed the sentence, I sprinted to my car with just my debit card, iPod and book in hand. Off I drove to Jane's Nails, the only local salon open on Sundays.
It all started off very well. I walked in, and they immediately fulfill my "mani-pedi" request. Fantastic. Approximately five minutes into my manicure, a mom walks in with her 5 year old daughter to get a pedicure. At first, this sight does not trouble me at all. I understand a mother's need to get out of the house. I understand her desire to treat herself to a foot soak. I understand her want of red polish on her toes. I've been alone with a toddler for the last 3 days; I get it. But, then she says she wants her daughter to get a pedicure too, and I think "This is going to be trouble."
Now, ladies (no offense to my dear male friends who read this blog as well - please don't feel excluded), you know damn well that occasionally you'll get pinched or the water will be a little too hot or the file will burn just a bit. And you are not a five year old girl with tickly feet who squirms and wiggles because, you know, you're 5! You're a grown up who can sit still for 30 - 45 minutes, longer if someone is rubbing your feet! But a kind (perhaps naive) technician invites this sweet little girl to climb into a massage chair to give her a pedicure.
At first, it's okay. Yes, she's a chatty five year old and I would prefer a little more serenity (as I just left my chatty 2 year old), but it's manageable. The little girl is good for the first 10 - 15 minutes and I think, "I misjudged; shame on me. A preschooler can get a pedicure." However, before the daydreams of kindergarten Princess and I getting pedis begin, a scream catapaults from this girl's mouth out into the salon. This little girl's yelp reverberates off the salon's coral walls, circles each patron's head, and sends familiar maternal quesiness into my belly. Then, the tears pour from this little girl's face and true hysterics set in. Her mother frantically interrogates the girl and the tech, "What happened? What hurts?" But no one speaks, or if they do, I can't hear it over the child's gut-wrenching, "my foot has been cut off" cries.
Just the relaxing Sunday morning I was looking for.
So it turns out, as the tech clipped the little girl's big toe nail, the girl flinched, and the tech caught a tiny piece of skin. Yep, that hurts. I don't blame the child for screaming. She's five... I blame the mom for getting her a pedicure because, you know, she's five...
After several minutes of consoling her, wrapping her toe in mountains of gauze and assuring her it would be fine, the mother finally decides to remove her daughter from the salon. But as she leaves, she doesn't apologize or state (with contrition) "This probably wasn't a good idea." No, instead she makes a ridiculous proclamation: "Don't worry, baby. We will NEVER come back to this TERRIBLE place again! They OBVIOUSLY don't know how to take care of their CUSTOMERS properly."
Lady...she's five, and you got her a pedicure. And your daughter's screaming ruined 20 minutes of my 60 allotted minutes to be without my own screaming child. Let's not pass blame on the salon here.
So, call me crazy, unreasonable or plain mean. But there are some places that really are for adults only. If men can have an entire section of a non-franchised video store (b/c we all know women order their porn online), then I think ladies should be allowed to have nail salons.
There are just some places that should be for Adults Only.
Friday, August 24, 2007
One Last Sweet Treat
Princess and I had ice cream for lunch...and it was delicious! Now before anyone reports me to an agency for bad parents, let me defend myself.
I go back to work next week. My summer fun officially stops on Tuesday. So today after a morning of music class, followed by a late morning of walking around a farm feeding lots of animals, Princess and I each got a Kiddie cup full of silky vanilla ice cream. We found a nice little picnic bench (far enough away from both farm animals and garbage cans thus avoiding a swarm of bees reminiscent of My Girl) and indulged ourselves in spoonful after spoonful of the creamy sweet treat. It was our swan song for a lovely mother-daughter summer that feels as if it only just begun.
As I wiped the sugary drips from my daughter's cheeks (and knees, fingers, t-shirt, shorts and one ear - not sure how that happened), I felt that familiar knot creep into the back of my throat. Our mornings of music, cooking shows, play-doh, car races, crayons, books, blocks and dolls are over. The afternoons of pool splashes, park swings, and salt shakers (to season the dinners we watched assembled on Food Network, of course) are through. We will walk back in the maelstrom of early morning wake-up calls, long hours without one sticky kiss from Princess, and ridiculous traffic jams which nibble away our few precious hours together. The knot is repositioning itself as I write.
So, yes, we had ice cream for lunch. We licked away our fun summer and prepared ourselves for another school year.
And don't worry...we are having chicken and a big salad for dinner.
I go back to work next week. My summer fun officially stops on Tuesday. So today after a morning of music class, followed by a late morning of walking around a farm feeding lots of animals, Princess and I each got a Kiddie cup full of silky vanilla ice cream. We found a nice little picnic bench (far enough away from both farm animals and garbage cans thus avoiding a swarm of bees reminiscent of My Girl) and indulged ourselves in spoonful after spoonful of the creamy sweet treat. It was our swan song for a lovely mother-daughter summer that feels as if it only just begun.
As I wiped the sugary drips from my daughter's cheeks (and knees, fingers, t-shirt, shorts and one ear - not sure how that happened), I felt that familiar knot creep into the back of my throat. Our mornings of music, cooking shows, play-doh, car races, crayons, books, blocks and dolls are over. The afternoons of pool splashes, park swings, and salt shakers (to season the dinners we watched assembled on Food Network, of course) are through. We will walk back in the maelstrom of early morning wake-up calls, long hours without one sticky kiss from Princess, and ridiculous traffic jams which nibble away our few precious hours together. The knot is repositioning itself as I write.
So, yes, we had ice cream for lunch. We licked away our fun summer and prepared ourselves for another school year.
And don't worry...we are having chicken and a big salad for dinner.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Never Too Many Cooks
Many people learn to cook in their mothers' or grandmothers' kitchens. They cozy up around countertops or linger over hot stoves, consuming every morsel of culinary knowledge available. That is not my story. My mother, bless her heart, does not love to cook. Growing up we had lots of meals generated from cardboard boxes, and that was really fine with me. However, several years ago I decided I wanted to learn more about cooking and to try to become a really, really good cook. So my education began...thanks to Food Network.
Not really the touchy, feely comfortable place to learn, but hey - I didn't even know how to chop an onion when I started. Lovingly (though two dimensionally), food network cooks invited me into their kitchens and showed me the ropes - well the microplanes, whiskers and juicers. Rachel Ray became my new best friend as I watched night after night of 30 minute meals. Not only did I learn how to chop an onion, but before I knew it I was making sauces, entrees, side dishes, and salads, all from scratch. I tossed my measuring cups and spoons, preferring to "eyeball" it like my dear friend Rachel (this decision has created some salty disasters, but I have learned my lesson).
Then I started having dinner parties, inviting couples and family members over to experiment with new recipes. Nothing is more fulfilling than filling the bellies of those you love with delicious food. I've made balsamic pork tenderloin for 4 and 14. Of course, I am now a bit famous for my Christmas Eve dinner (utilizing seven types of fish to honor my husband's Italian heritage and making killer filet mignon for those who can't stomach the pesce). I have to say I am pretty darn good now and have graduated to creating my own recipes.
Yet, when Princess came along a few years ago, cooking became much more difficult. Finding the time to make the macaroni & cheese from scratch (w/ freshly ground nutmeg, of course) became nearly impossible. So some cardboard boxes have made their way into my pantry. As a working mom, I had to let go of some of my homemade dinners in order to spend those precious evening hours with my little girl.
But now Princess has discovered Food Network as well, and all may be right with the world again. Yes, my two year old (former lover of all things Mickey and Zoe) would prefer to watch Rachel, Emeril, or Ina "do some cooking" rather than any kids' show. Recently, I updated my Tivo so that these beloved cooking shows could be viewed at a moment's notice. Princess also loves to help in me in my kitchen, which can present some toddler challenges (no, honey, you can't pour the gallon of milk into the very hot saucepan). But she can mix salads, spices and vinagrettes pretty well. Overall, it has been really fun!
Yesterday, I prepared a Sunday dinner for my family. It was an unusually chilly day for August, so I made my husband's favorite roast chicken along with cous cous and green beans. For some of the time, Princess was propped up on the counter asking "What's this mommy?" or "Can I mix that mommy?"
As she inquisitively pointed to each ingredient I realized something. While she may love the TV cooks as much as I do, she may actually be learning to cook while hanging out in my kitchen and stirring our family's orzo salad. That brings me great joy and I hope years worth of wonderful memories.
So thank you Rachel Ray...I owe you one.
Not really the touchy, feely comfortable place to learn, but hey - I didn't even know how to chop an onion when I started. Lovingly (though two dimensionally), food network cooks invited me into their kitchens and showed me the ropes - well the microplanes, whiskers and juicers. Rachel Ray became my new best friend as I watched night after night of 30 minute meals. Not only did I learn how to chop an onion, but before I knew it I was making sauces, entrees, side dishes, and salads, all from scratch. I tossed my measuring cups and spoons, preferring to "eyeball" it like my dear friend Rachel (this decision has created some salty disasters, but I have learned my lesson).
Then I started having dinner parties, inviting couples and family members over to experiment with new recipes. Nothing is more fulfilling than filling the bellies of those you love with delicious food. I've made balsamic pork tenderloin for 4 and 14. Of course, I am now a bit famous for my Christmas Eve dinner (utilizing seven types of fish to honor my husband's Italian heritage and making killer filet mignon for those who can't stomach the pesce). I have to say I am pretty darn good now and have graduated to creating my own recipes.
Yet, when Princess came along a few years ago, cooking became much more difficult. Finding the time to make the macaroni & cheese from scratch (w/ freshly ground nutmeg, of course) became nearly impossible. So some cardboard boxes have made their way into my pantry. As a working mom, I had to let go of some of my homemade dinners in order to spend those precious evening hours with my little girl.
But now Princess has discovered Food Network as well, and all may be right with the world again. Yes, my two year old (former lover of all things Mickey and Zoe) would prefer to watch Rachel, Emeril, or Ina "do some cooking" rather than any kids' show. Recently, I updated my Tivo so that these beloved cooking shows could be viewed at a moment's notice. Princess also loves to help in me in my kitchen, which can present some toddler challenges (no, honey, you can't pour the gallon of milk into the very hot saucepan). But she can mix salads, spices and vinagrettes pretty well. Overall, it has been really fun!
Yesterday, I prepared a Sunday dinner for my family. It was an unusually chilly day for August, so I made my husband's favorite roast chicken along with cous cous and green beans. For some of the time, Princess was propped up on the counter asking "What's this mommy?" or "Can I mix that mommy?"
As she inquisitively pointed to each ingredient I realized something. While she may love the TV cooks as much as I do, she may actually be learning to cook while hanging out in my kitchen and stirring our family's orzo salad. That brings me great joy and I hope years worth of wonderful memories.
So thank you Rachel Ray...I owe you one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
